


You know that feeling?

by Magisey



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Unhealthy Habits, is it abuse or is it not the fic the question, no abuse between McCree and Hanzo, probably wildly out of character, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magisey/pseuds/Magisey
Summary: A bad day leads to a bad night leads to a week of isolation, no showers, and a broken archer. Thankfully, he has someone there to guide him back to steady ground.





	You know that feeling?

**Author's Note:**

> not beta, never to be beta. lots of mistakes and punctuation errors.  
> edit: I fibbed and fixed some stuff

“Do you know that feeling,” Hanzo’s voice is barely above a whisper, brushing into the skin of the arms that hold him close. That keep him safe, “The one they show in movies a lot. Where someone seems something enchanting or fantastic and stares at it with a blank, open mouth expression.”

 

“Think they call it awe.”  
  
Grunting softly, Hanzo lets his eyes close, “Is there a negative version of that? Like the world is moving around you rapidly and you can’t seem to… to move? Or do anything?”

 

Jesse is silent when he needs noise, but he can’t ask. Even this is too strong, the feeling of arms when he needs them. Doesn’t deserve them, but needs them. His jaw clenches, a pitiful attempt to keep himself together.

 

“Don’t know the word, but I feel it every now and again.”

 

“That,” Hanzo’s voice is weak, cracking at the edges as if just saying this, admitting it, was weakening his defenses, “Is how I feel all the time. Lost and awake and out of control, but so slow and incongruent. Like everything around me is moving faster than I am.”

 

“I thought…” Jesse’s voice is distraught, strangled. He clears his throat and buries his face into Hanzo’s greasy hair, making him wince. He surely cannot smell well. Not with the days spent unshowered, huddled in his small room, waiting, “I thought you were getting better.”

 

A strangled bark of a laughter breaks from him. Helpless, manic laughter that leaves him in tears that morph into sob, “There IS no better. This is it.” Emotions drug to the surface fades again - numb filled awe, a wide aching space that needed to be cleansed, “This is who I am, Jesse. There is no better. There never will be.”

 

“Don’t say that.” The arms hold tighter, but he knows the truth. Even if he wants to believe Jesse, he knows the truth. it’s a pattern, of high and lows that only seem to be withstood. That only hold him from the darkest of depths, from the deepest of his self-destructive tendencies, “Darlin’ there’s always more.”

 

“Just more of this.” It’s a solemn promise, a vow, said on broken lips that smile through the pain, “You ought to find someone better for you. Someone who is healthier and happier and won’t drag you down.”

 

His head is pushed back, cupped between two large, calloused hands that feel as if they burn from their warmth. He can’t keep eye contract, looks everywhere and finally settles on the gunslinger’s lips. Watches as they form words. Hardens his heart to the sound.

 

“Ain’t a damn person I wanna be with more than you. Happy or Sad or cinematic numb.” Hanzo swallows thickly, trying to bury the urge to sob. “Look at me, darlin’.”

 

He has always been weak. This, this is a weakness he knows. A weakness he cannot overcome and never will. They say it is of no fault of his own, but a part of him will never believe it. Can never believe it. But being asked, so kindly, to look is impossible to ignore. No, not with warm hands and kind words, whispered to him. Not with a man war worn and tired holding him like he’s precious.

 

Their eyes meet and his vision wavers. _W_ _eak weak weak weak weak_. “I’m not leaving. Even when it gets bad. I promise.”

 

"One day, you will.” Another promise, a self-destructive vow.

 

Jesse sighs and shifts to get comfortable, holding him closer, “Don’t you trust me?” Oh, and the question hurts because he does. He trusts him as much as he can, but there are places and pieces of him that can never trust. That has never healed. That never will. They always bleed, drowning him in their sorrow and blood.

 

“I do, please don’t think otherwise. I do. I do.” Panic settles in because to be doubted is the worst thing. To be doubted by someone he adores, someone who despite protests, he would fall apart without, hurts more than any demon ever could.

 

“Shh, shh. Talk to me, baby.” What is there to say? How do you explain to someone a childhood of twisted words and well-intentioned love that left cuts deeper and more festered than a man should rightly live with?

 

He starts, simply. Slowly. Picking out the words and stories to help build a scene, a setting. Maybe not the pinnacle, definitely not the defining, but the ones that stick out, the ones that don’t require a deeper understanding of his culture.

 

A mother who asks and begs to be a part of her son’s life, and then when she becomes upset or angry, twists his words and wields them as weapons. A mother who had her own mental health issues, and promised that it would get better for her son, but still remained bothered or angered by his when they showed. Who dismissed his pain because she had worse of her own growing up. Who on one hand could become soft and caring, but would retreat and demand explanations or dish out harsh words. Who sympathized as well as demonized.

 

“She… wanted you to tell her and then…”

 

“It wasn’t always immediate, but yes. Almost always the words would find their way back to me as a weapon. I had to walk on eggshells, mind what I said and when I said it. I had to be careful.”

 

Even now, decades later, he wonders if this conversation will come back. Will they have a fight and Jesse will turn, vicious venom on his tongue, telling him how he was weak and useless and never going to get better? How he thought his trust issues were borne of no big importance? That this happens to everyone and he was blowing it all out of proportion?

 

He is held tight, fingers tangling in his hair, “Fuck.” McCree rasps.

 

“Indeed.” His laugh is giddy, but strained.

 

They lay quiet, reviewing their own demons, their own pasts. Jesse speaks first, breaking their silence, “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

 

“You’re right. I know you wouldn’t, but… Years and years of the same thing has made me… second guess everyone, even those who I love the most. She was supposed to love me, but I…” His voice breaks, tears crawling down his face. An unsettling pain squeezes his chest. _You’re overreacting. You’re being dramatic. Stop this. Stop this. Weak weak weak weak._

 

 _“_ It's okay, honey.”

  
It doesn’t make things better, not in a way that’s instant. Not in a way that stops this numb feeling that sinks his sadness and anger and happiness into its gluttonous maw. But he is safe. He is loved. And not for the first time, he is grateful for Jesse McCree.


End file.
